“Take it easy, boy,” he urged in a voice of affection that the broncho understood.  “Take it easy.”  He dismounted to lead the animal down the slope, since a steep descent is far more trying on a ridden horse than climbing up the grade.  He halted to pat the pony on the neck, and give his nose a rough caress, then on they went, the shadow they cast the only shade upon the burning hill.

It was fully an hour after leaving the pass, where Barger had piled in the rock, before the horseman and his broncho dropped again in the trail that led onward to the river.  Van was again in the saddle.  Alert for possible surprises, but assured that his man could find no adequate cover hereabouts, he emerged from behind the last of the turns all eagerness to give his horse a drink.

A yell broke suddenly, terribly, on the desert stillness.  It came from Barger, out in the river, on the bar—­strangely anchored where he stood.

Van saw him instantly, saw a human fantastic, struggling, writhing, twisting with maniacal might, the while the horrible quicksand held him by the legs, and swallowed him, inch by inch.

“Fer Christ’s sake—­help!” the creature shrilled in his plight.  He had flung away revolvers, cartridges, even his coat, reducing his weight when the stuff only gripped him by the ankles.  He was half to his thighs.  He was sinking to his waist, and with all of his furious efforts, the frightful sand was shuddering, as if in animal ecstacy—­some abominable ecstacy of hunger, voracious from long denial, as it sucked him further down.

“Fer Christ’s sake, Van Buren—­fer Christ’s sake, man!  I’m a human being,” shrieked the victim of the sand. “I’m a human being, man!”

Van had not hesitated by so much as a moment as to what he meant to do.  He was off his horse in a leap.  He paused for a second to looked about for any accidental means of assistance the place might afford.  It afforded none.  The man in the quicksand continued to yell, to struggle hopelessly, to sink in that shivering pool of life-engulfing stuff.

Then the horseman thought of his rope, the raw-hide lasso, always secured upon his saddle.  He snatched at the knots to tear it loose.

“Don’t move—­don’t struggle!” he shouted at the man, and down toward the edge he came running, the rope-noose running out as he sped.

He dared not step beyond the bank, and so involve himself.  Barger was well out from the edge.  The throw at best was long and difficult.

“Hold up your hands, above your head!” he called.  “Don’t thrash around!”

The convict obeyed.  His haggard, bearded face was turned to Van like a mask of horror.  The eyes were blazing fearfully.  The fellow’s attitude, as he held his hands above his head, and continued to sink, was a terrible pose of supplication—­an awful eloquence of prayer.

Van threw—­and the cast fell short.